Freudian Slips
by Theater Raven
Summary: Oneshot. The man who loves Christine is driven to desperate measures to win her love. Meanwhile, Christine is recalling the past with a very different viewpoint.


**Freudian Slips**

It was driving him mad. It was bad enough to know that he did not completely have her heart all to himself, but the fact that he had to share her heart with _him_? The thought was mind-boggling. After all, they were complete opposites—one of them was a wealthy young aristocrat, the other was a hideous, aging musician. They couldn't be more opposite if they tried, and yet, they were brought together in the simple fact that they both held a part of a young girl's heart in their hands. To dwell on this simple fact too long made his heart ache with agony and his brain spin around in circles like a mad dog chasing its tail.

Raoul de Chagny sat by the fireplace, seated in his favorite chair—an antique one that had been sitting in this very spot of the living room since he was a small boy. He watched the flames as they curled up in the inferno dance, vanishing in little trails of smoke up into the black abyss of the chimney's gaping mouth. He pitied the poor log that had been chosen, sacrificed to satisfy the fire's selfish appetite . . .

_The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn . . ._

Oh, that poor, poor log! Raoul curled his fingers in frustration, feeling his nails digging into the soft, smoothed wood of the arm of the chair. His head ached and he lowered it, closing his eyes.

"It's over."

At the sound of his wife's voice behind him, Raoul raised his head.

"What's over, Christine?"

She did not verbally answer but instead came up to him and dropped a newspaper into his lap, pointing to a very small notice that was merely a simple, three-worded sentence:

_Erik est mort._

Raoul stared at the paper for a moment, wondering, perhaps, if the statement was really there or if he was just imagining it.

"Indeed, it _is_ finally over, Christine," he said hollowly, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "At last, we are free of him; we can live our lives out in peace."

Christine did not answer for a minute, then, she said,

"Do not speak of him like that, like he was some kind of rat wallowing in the gutter."

"He_ was_ a rat, Christine! He manipulated you—he almost had all of us killed."

"Even so, for years, he was my teacher, my friend, my father . . ."

"Christine, you know he was not sent by your father. There is no Angel of Music."

"I know, I know, and even _after _I knew that, I couldn't shake the fact that for so long, he'd _represented_ . . ."

There was a pause, then, she took the paper from him and left. Raoul sat in the chair, turning the simple announcement over and over again in his mind.

"Erik is dead . . ."

He was thinking.

#

Christine took refuge with the newspaper out in the garden, choosing to sit down on the white marble bench that was by the little fountain. She stared into the water, at the little fish swimming happily in the cool waves . . . if only her life could be as carefree as a fish's!

_So, he is dead . . . he was my friend, my teacher . . . my father . . ._

This last thought troubled her greatly. She had been troubled by it since she first heard the "Angel's" voice, for there was an aspect about his coming that disturbed her greatly and it was known to Christine alone—she hadn't told anyone about it:

When she had been about thirteen, at that age where the protective veil of childhood must be shed to reveal the face of a young woman beneath it, she had started to realize the magnetic pull women and men had towards each other, that boys grew to men, girls to women, and that, as they grew, the yearn to couple off strengthened until the time came at last for each of them to choose a companion, a mate, a partner. She realized this, but none of the young men who were her friends at the Opera interested her—they were still mere playmates in their times of fun, colleagues during rehearsals and performances. Not even the distant memory of meeting the young Raoul that day on the beach made her heart flutter as someone would have expected. For a long time, she thought she would never feel the grasp of that invisible magnetic pull. She remembered heading back to her dormitory late one night when she was fifteen, thinking these thoughts, and smiling sadly to herself; yes, she was certain she would never feel those things, but then, that night, she had the dream.

In the dream, she gave her gift. And she received his gift, but she could not see who he was—it was completely dark and he did not speak. But she felt him. The memories of the dream caresses sent chills through her, spearing down into her very soul. She had awakened with a shudder, clutching the blankets around her, feeling relieved and, at the same time, slightly saddened and disappointed to find herself alone in her bed.

Similar dreams followed over the next several months, awakening her to the desires locked up in her heart, some so passionately strong that she hadn't even realized they had been lying dormant down there, waiting to be aroused, stirred, awakened. And the one she showed these feelings to, the figure who awakened them, never spoke or showed his face. Every time he came in a dream, she wanted to ask him who he was, but each time, she was so lost within her own desires as they were fulfilled and simultaneously made hungrier that she forgot, and by the time she remembered, she had awakened. Then, one night, at last, she discovered who he was and wished that the horrid knowledge would flee and that her mind would again be left wondering his identity. It happened towards the conclusion of her final dream of him.

Their passion had finished and, exhausted from it, she held him to her. She was moved to tears by what had transpired and, at hearing that she was crying, he reached up to gently catch a tear on his fingertips as it flowed down her cheek. He then bent down and kissed her cheek where the tear had previously been.

"Don't cry, Christine."

Christine's tears immediately stopped, but not because he had told her to stop crying. Horror gripped her. She knew that voice. It was. It was _his_ voice.

She shook her head. No, it couldn't be. It couldn't! But it was. Trembling, barely able to get the word out, she called to him.

"Papa?"

And it was as if a light went on and she saw her father's face gazing down at her, then she woke up in a cold sweat. The next night, the Angel's voice first sang to her.

Christine swallowed, shuddering. What disturbed her most about the dreams was that, after she got over the shock, she had found herself thinking that of course the mysterious figure would be her father. She remembered lying close to him in hay barns—where they had been forced to sleep as they had not the money for a room at the inn—and doubting that she could ever love anyone more than him. Of course, looking out from beneath the innocent veil all children view the world through, this love had been the love that the daughter felt for the father, but after considering her dreams for a long time, she had realized she felt more for him, and, in a way, it made sense. He had been the one constant in her life—she barely remembered her mother, who had died when she was six, and after her death, Carl Daaé had not wanted to live in the same house where his wife had died, so he and Christine had started traveling and performing together.

Everything around Christine always seemed to change—the faces of the audience as the matinee performance shifted to the evening performance, the towns, the food they ate, the weather. The only thing that remained constant was her father. She could still see his face, even now. He had died tragically young, as he had drowned one day when they were out in a boat at sea, and so, his face was still that of a young man—pale skin, sapphire eyes gleaming like the eyes of a happy forest elf who seemed only to live on music, on the sounds he wove with his violin . . . Christine loved music and so, she loved him. And she now knew she desired him.

She grew to harbor for Erik the affection a student has for a long-acquainted teacher, she appreciated all his teachings, yes, but that was not why she clung to the story of the Angel of Music for so long. No, whenever the Angel, or even the Opera Ghost, sang to her, she pictured her father—she saw his face, she heard his violin and voice, she felt his hand softly touch her face as he had done in the dream to wipe away her tears. . . and the longing that burned within her nearly drove her to insanity. Yes, Erik was to blame for the deception, but he was not the culprit for the illusion. Christine was the true illusionist, her longings making her deceive herself even when she knew full well she was doing so. Shaking these thoughts from her mind, she rose and went back to enter the house.

#

A servant informed her that, while she had been out in the garden, Raoul had suddenly recalled that he was to meet some companions at a café and that he would be back late tonight. Christine nodded and awaited dinner's preparation. She ate it mechanically then went to go sit by the fire and read, hoping to take her mind off the remembrance of her dreams, the desires that still flared in her heart, and the fact that the masked man who had been the basis for the wonderful illusion she had entertained herself with was now gone forever. She spent the rest of the evening immersed in Dickens' _Great Expectations_, finding it odd that she could empathize with both Pip and Miss Havisham . . .

#

As the carriage rode back towards home, Raoul smiled to himself. Guilt or shame did not even enter his mind. He was too desperate, too unsatisfied—in short, too much in love. If this was the only way he could capture her heart, then, so be it.

#

She prepared for bed, wishing her husband had returned by now. Christine was still troubled, and the night's weather seemed to heighten that—the wind was blowing and lighting had flashed a few times in the sky. Perhaps it would rain overnight. Sighing, she lay down beneath the covers and tried to sleep. Sleep finally came and, when it did, she plunged deeply into it.

She must have been asleep for only about an hour and a half when she heard the bedroom door click open. She turned over sleepily, sitting up halfway. Darkness was before her. Thinking it was the wind, she settled back down to sleep, but bolted upright when she felt something touch her foot.

"Raoul?"

There was no reply.

"Raoul?" she asked again, this time a little more fearfully.

A figure came to lie down beside her. It moved slowly, as if it was trying to not frighten her, and Christine relaxed—her husband had returned and wanted her to just go back to sleep and so, he had not answered when she called his name. His hand moved to gently touch her face and she smiled—oh, how happy she was that he had come back, her rock, her safety net, her protector . . . But then, another flash of lighting stabbed the sky, illuminating the room for a few seconds, and she recoiled in horror at the sight of a familiar black mask looking down at her.

"Erik!"

He put a gloved finger over her lips motioning for silence.

"No!" she hissed fiercely, "I _won't_ be quiet! Erik, how did you . . .? The paper said . . . I want an explanation, Erik!"

He did not say anything but instead removed his mask. Christine prayed with all her heart that lighting would not come again—she did not want that horrific sight that was revealed to her when his mask was gone to appear before her eyes. She flinched back when she felt his lips on her neck.

"Get away from me!" she said, pushing him away.

She tried to fight her way out from under him, but he was much stronger than her and pinned her down.

"Let go of me!"

He seized her chin in his hand, tipping it back, and kissed her. Christine's head started to spin—she didn't think he could put such passion behind a kiss . . . she tried to tell herself to fight him; her mind was screaming at her to bite his lips in return for the kiss, to get away, but her body told her to succumb to him . . . oh, God, this kiss was like one that was from her dreams . . . no, no, fight it, fight it . . . she couldn't. She gave her gift and received his, and all the while, they did not speak, and no lighting flashed to give Christine an unwanted view of that terrible face—she could easily turn her feelings of affection into the feelings she knew he wanted her to feel as long as she did not have to see that horrible face. When it was all over, he kissed her hand and left and when she next awoke, just before sunup, she found Raoul asleep in the spot in bed beside her.

#

The previous day had been exhausting for Raoul, so that was probably why he slept in so late. By the time he awoke, Christine was not in the bedroom and he could hear the sounds of breakfast being prepared downstairs. He sat up, throwing back the covers, and went to change for the day. It was a beautiful day—the sun was streaming gloriously through the windows—and the good weather reflected Raoul's mood.

He hummed a little tune to himself as he dressed. His singing was interrupted when he heard Christine call to him that breakfast was ready.

"I'll be down in a minute, my dear," he called, then, crossed the room again to fetch his jacket.

As he reached to get his coat off its hanger, Raoul reached over and fingered a black velvet cloak that was hanging next to it. He smiled.

"_Merci __beaucoup__,_ Erik."


End file.
